


The End of the Game

by lisagemeni



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confession, M/M, Post His Last Vow, fluff at the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2052267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisagemeni/pseuds/lisagemeni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Series 3. Did you miss me? It's a question that's been on the tip of Sherlock's tongue and when James Moriarty pays an unexpected visit to 221B Baker Street, the first since The Fall, Sherlock might just finally get the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Round One

There was never any rhyme or reason for when the consulting criminal would visit. He just would.

Sometimes Sherlock was prepared for it and sometimes he wasn't. 

Sherlock would always remember the first time he saw Jim again, though. It would always be as clear as day to him. How could it not be? Seeing James Moriarty again, after failing to convince himself that he was dead, well... it was like the release of a fresh needle in his veins. It was like the breath of fresh air that Carl never took once he started struggling in the water. 

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, boredom overwhelming his senses. His fingers itched for a cigarette, his mind for a puzzle. He was dressed in his blue bathrobe, feeling too stagnant to get up and change into something else. There was no one to impress. Not John. Not anyone. Not anymore.

And suddenly, without warning, he was there. 

Jim sat in John's chair, this time, having not been given the option. He wore a suit that Sherlock hadn't seen before, a burgundy color that brought out Jim's features in a way Sherlock never thought possible. The black of his eyes seemed to shine. 

"Yes." Sherlock broke the thick glass of silence between them.

Moriarty's lips quirked upwards into an all-knowing smile. 

"You didn't need to respond, Sherlock. I already knew." 

"Then why'd you ask the question?" Sherlock rested his chin on his fingertips.

"Did you miss me was an invitation, rather than a question. I thought it would be the perfect way to lure you back into my direction. However, you... you haven't looked for me." Moriarty sounded disappointed now, similar to the way he sounded on the rooftop. "No, no no... you've been dawdling in this flat, all alone, without your precious John, without an interesting case... instead of looking for me. To put it simply, I'm... hurt by your lack of action. Do I not mean anything to you?" Back was the singsong joking tone in Jim's voice, back was the comfortability between them. 

"Quite the opposite," Sherlock grinned sarcastically, "You mean everything to me. My distinct lack of motion clued you in that I wasn't going to make the first move. I knew you would turn up here, eventually, once boredom got the better of you. And now, here you are."

Jim found Sherlock's words endearing. "Here I am."

The two geniuses locked eyes, both barely breathing, waiting to see who would make the next move. 

"Covent Garden. Car accident involving the star soprano."

"Child's play. It was made to look like an accident. The understudy had been in the singer's shadow for years, decided she had had enough. The police didn't notice the lighter in the passenger seat and how odd that was considering the famed singer had just publicly announced that she had quit smoking. The understudy asked for a ride home, the singer rolled down the window and when she said no, the understudy asked for a lighter for her cigarette. When the singer didn't have one, the understudy grabbed her own, set the woman on fire and, in a panic, accidentally threw the lighter in the car. She jumped out of the way while the singer lost control of the car and crashed into the building. Not one of your crowning achievements, but it was dripping with your usual theatricality and it was enough to keep my mind preoccupied for a few moments."

Jim let out a small laugh and it drifted through the room like smoke lingering after a candle had just been put out.

"Leicester Square, double murder, two weeks ago." 

"It was the employee that worked at the movie theater. He was the only one who could've possibly known how to get in after hours, regardless of what he said about not having the key. There are other ways in. Obviously."

"Obviously. Hyde Park?"

"Gang-related killing. If anyone had bothered to pay any attention, there was only one set of fresh graffiti against that wall."

"Very good, Sherly. Very good." Sherlock cringed at the nickname, but a well of excitement began to pool at the bottom of his stomach. 

"Now what, Jim?" Sherlock spat the man's name like there was something bitter at the tip of his tongue. "What do we do now, after we've played quite an exciting game? Are we to do nothing but revert back to our familiar roles, you the criminal who opposes me and I the detective who thwarts your every scheme? It's annoyingly cliche. That's not us, Jim. It never has been."

Jim leaned back in his chair and sat in a pose that mocked the detective, his chin resting against his fingertips, eyes closed, pretending to think while a lazy, all-knowing smirk rested on the man's face. Sherlock waited an eternity before the man spoke up.

"Have you told John yet?" Jim's eyes remained closed. 

Sherlock felt his heart sink and the pit of his stomach turned cold.

"Told him what?"

"Oh, stop that. Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock." Jim's voiced turned from childlike to menacing and his eyes were like ice. 

Sherlock gripped his chair, the only physical manifestation of his numbing fear.

"Of course not."

"Why not? Don't you think your... _best_ friend deserves to know?" Jim's face with alight with fury now, as if the mere thought of the doctor would send him into a murderous rage. 

"John... he... he's busy with his wife and his child. It's best I leave him alone, for a time at least. Once he settles in and gets bored, he'll come back to me, surely. But now is not the right moment." 

Jim narrowed his eyes threateningly. "And will you tell him then? Tell him what really happened on the roof at St. Bart's?" 

Sherlock sighed, feeling more tired than he had felt in a very long time. "Yes." 

"Good." Jim immediately stood, his face relaxed again, his posture loose. 

"Where...are you going?" Sherlock barely managed to choke out. 

Jim let out a small, flirtatious laugh and walked over to the detective, resting his hand on his shoulder. "Miss me already, Sherl? I haven't even left yet."

Sherlock gave no response.

"I've got several clients to meet in the afternoon. I already had to cancel one meeting this morning... it cost me quite the scandal, but you were worth it. But I really must be going now."

Jim turned to leave, a confident step in his stride but hesitated before he met the door.

"When will I see you again?" Sherlock remained rooted to the spot, his eyes still on the chair that John used to occupy. 

Jim smiled and remained facing the door. "Soon, my darling. Very soon."

And like that, as if he had never been there, Jim was gone.

Sherlock thought that that was going to be his very last visit, his final goodbye before descending into the shadows of his vast empire.

He was wrong.


	2. Round Two

The next time Moriarty came by was exactly a week to the second of his first visit. Sherlock had expected this, given Jim's obsession with numbers. This time, instead of diving straight into some of the banal crimes that Jim had organized recently, he began to speak about random mathematical theorems, ones that Sherlock would have ordinarily found boring. But coming from Jim's mouth, he found it exhilarating. 

"I've never seen you worked up like this." Sherlock stated, taking a long sip from his cup of earl grey tea. 

Like clockwork, Jim put his cup down on the floor, just as Sherlock put the cup to his lips. "That's a lie and you know it," Jim teased, that irritating, flirtatious tone creeping back into his voice. He licked the excess trace of milk on his lips and leaned back into his chair, looking more relaxed than Sherlock had ever seen the man. It was a bit off putting, especially since all Sherlock could remember was how frantic and manic Jim usually was. But seeing him like this... it was a beauty Sherlock thought he would never have the privilege to see. 

"It is true that mathematics gets me excited. As does astronomy. It always has, ever since I was a boy."

"Astronomy is dull. Boring. Pointless."

Jim let out a small, annoyed laugh and he narrowed his eyes at the detective, his lips curving upwards, giving Sherlock the impression of a man who had just been wounded but had enjoyed every second of it.

"Well... I might have to change your mind about that."

"You can try." Sherlock challenged, his voice a low growl of contempt and exaltation. 

"Enough about me, Sherl. I could spend the entire morning speaking about mathematical theories and astronomical anomalies, but that's not why I'm here." 

Sherlock backed away from being defensive and a familiar fear took root in his heart. This man was unpredictable. This man had the ability to hurt him or do anything he wanted with him.

"Why... are you here?" Sherlock asked calmly, his eyes a thin line, his lips following suit.

Jim smiled coyly, the very picture of relaxation. "I want to find out what gets you excited. I want to find out..." Jim twirled his index finger in a clockwise motion, his eyes following the circle he was creating, "what makes you _tick_."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in confusion. "You know what drives me, Jim... I don't understand-" 

"No no no... Shhh..." Jim put a finger up to his own lips, silencing himself for a moment, a rush of fury in his eyes for a second before a calm relief swept over him. "I meant... I want to see what you do. Day to day. When you're not preoccupied with one of my cases." 

Sherlock sat motionless, his heart pounding in his ears. "Jim...." He said, breathless, trying to suppress a dry laugh, "Surely you must think everyday activity is as trivial and mundane as I do. Why on earth would you-"

"Entertain me, Sherl." Jim sat up straight, a surge of confidence radiating from his eyes. "What's the matter? Just do what you do if I wasn't here. Go on..." Jim motioned with his hand for Sherlock to stand, but Sherlock refused to move.

"Why?" 

Jim smirked and he closed his eyes in contentment, as if the events unraveling in front of him caused too much pleasure to take in all at once. After a moment, he let out a smooth, low laugh and it caused the hair on Sherlock's body to stand on end. 

"It's so like you to question everything, darling. I must admit, in my three year absence I have forgotten certain quirks that I like about you so much. My mistake. It won't happen again."

Sherlock could feel the rise and fall of his chest, his breath quickening because of the unknown.

"I'm simply here to pass the time. I don't have any exciting clients for another few hours. And what would you do, sit here, alone? No no, we can't have that, now can we? That would be a miserable waste of your time and that precious mind of yours." 

Sherlock looked at Jim incredulously, the reality of what was happening starting to overwhelm him. Jim Moriarty wanted to... hang out with him. It was unbelievable. But rather than question it, rather than stare at the obvious elephant in the room, Sherlock decided to indulge in Jim's little game. For the moment at least.

Sherlock showed Jim around the flat, starting with the living room, moving onto the bookshelves, the kitchen and then finally, to his room. Jim pretended to be surprised, acting as if he had never seen the flat before, with sarcastic 'ooos' and 'ahhhs' and wide eyes and pursed lips, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes but he was secretly pleased. Sherlock loved showing off and Jim was the perfect, receptive audience. 

When they got to Sherlock's room, Jim was especially intrigued. Although Sherlock despised the idea of sleep and how wasteful it was, he took a certain amount of pride in his sleeping space, making sure everything was as neat and tidy as he possibly could. Jim had an abnormal excitement towards Sherlock's Judo certificate and Sherlock attempted to hide the red forming on his cheeks. 

"You can read Japanese?" 

Moriarty looked back at Sherlock incredulously and shook his head in exasperation, looking almost offended. 

His next fixation was the picture of Edgar Allen Poe hanging just above Sherlock's dressing cabinet. 

"Is this why you style your hair the way you do?" Moriarty smirked, tracing his fingers over Poe's head. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the accusation, even though the man was right. "Of course not." 

"Who knew that Sherl had such an affinity for Poe?" Moriarty put a finger to his lips, as if he was about to laugh at a joke. "... Although he practically _did_ invent detective fiction. Is he what gave you the idea that you wanted to be a... detective?"  


Sherlock merely stood, blinking, shocked that Moriarty was able to read him so well and so easily. 

"Why... don't we go to the kitchen? I can make more tea..."

Moriarty ignored Sherlock and jumped onto Sherlock's bed, giggling like a child without a care in the world. 

It was slightly unnerving to see the man this way. Sherlock was discovering new depths, new facets and he wasn't sure that he liked what he was seeing. Despite knowing how complex the man was, Sherlock liked putting him into a neat little box. It was easier that way. Sherlock was the hero. Moriarty was the villain. 

Sherlock watched the man, transfixed, shocked that he was seeing Moriarty be so... giddy. Some part of him was annoyed, after all he had never seen anyone meddling around his sleeping space... but another part of him, well...

No. No, he couldn't possibly entertain that thought. Sherlock's face turned a furious red and his heart was threatening to choke him, but he dismissed himself with a faint hand gesture and promptly left the room. 

He stormed over to his armchair, anxiety rattling his bones, unable to process _why_ he was feeling the way he was feeling. Why was his face flushed?

He knew the science behind it, of course, but it didn't make any rational sense on why he was blushing. He didn't think of Moriarty... in that way. He didn't think of anyone that way. Of course he didn't. The fact that he was even thinking this was preposterous. He was becoming deranged. That was the only explanation. Perhaps the criminal was having that affect on him. 

Just when Sherlock thought his mind would cave in on itself, he heard footsteps from the man that was plaguing his thoughts. 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, his face buried within his clenched fingers.

Like a ballet, Moriarty tiptoed over to the detective, unsure if Sherlock was asleep or if he wanted to be left alone. He was cautious and didn't want to annoy the man, already thinking his obnoxious behavior in the room had been too much. Perhaps he had stepped on the man's toes and had been a tad bit facetious. He wanted to apologize.

Moriarty walked over to Sherlock, steps hesitant and slow, trying not to make a sound though he was sure the man had heard him. He walked behind the armchair, arms reaching for Sherlock's shoulders but stopped before asking a gentle, "May I?"

Sherlock couldn't even see Moriarty, but he knew what he wanted to do. He gave a small nod before gasping as Moriarty's hands rested on his shoulders, fingers spinning long circles into his skin. At first, Sherlock was slightly disconcerted that someone was actually _touching_ him... but after a few moments, he relaxed to Moriarty's touch and a small, embarrassing moan left his lips.

Moriarty couldn't help but smile. "I've often wondered if instead of inflicting as much chaos as I have into the world, if my talents would've been better used as a masseur." Another minuscule moan. "I guess you've proved it."

Unbeknownst to the man, Sherlock had never felt this relaxed in a very, very long time. He sat up, giving into the movements, and let his head rest on the head of the chair, so that his eyes were locked with Jim's. 

They were like that, for what seemed like a blissful eternity, but was really only a half an hour. Sherlock's eyes closed and opened intermittently, but sometimes he forced them open so he could see Jim's smile and the mischievous eyes that were so fixated on him. 

Before he even realized it, Sherlock fell sound asleep. 

Moriarty gave it a few more minutes, absolutely astounded that he was able to watch the object of his affections fall asleep right in front of him, because of him. Peace was something he thought he would never see on Sherlock's face and some part of him wanted them to stay like that, forever. 

But even he knew all good things should pass, and after giving Sherlock's shoulders and neck one last good squeeze, James Moriarty left 221B Baker Street with an unfamiliar sense of bliss.


	3. Round Three

And so, the days came and went and there wasn't a day in the last month that Moriarty didn't visit the famous consulting detective. Most days they would play the deduction game; Moriarty would name a recent crime and Sherlock would try and solve it. There was only one occasion that Sherlock had deduced wrong and much to Sherlock's chagrin, Moriarty promised he would never let him forget that. 

There were days when the two of them would do nothing but sip tea and listen to Beethoven, or Bach, sometimes even Mozart, although Moriarty thought the latter nothing but pretentious. They would sit for hours, humming melody lines that they had memorized during their youth, or suggesting each other symphonies that the other hadn't listened to yet. Sherlock grew particularly fond of those days, because it promised him peace and a place to rest; he felt as comfortable as if he were alone but as relaxed as if he was with an old friend, one that didn't judge him if there was nothing but hours of silence between them.

Moriarty was nothing but playful and ecstatic whenever they listened to music, especially if Sherlock hadn't heard a particular movement of Bach's before. Sometimes Jim would go into the history of the song and why Bach had written it, and Sherlock thought he had never heard a more interesting conversation in his life.

But despite all of this, Sherlock's favorite days were the days the two of them would perform scientific experiments together. Out of habit, Sherlock limited the amount of body parts that he kept stocked up in the fridge because he remembered John's extreme dislike of them so he was forced to visit St. Bart's. After gathering an ample supply, Molly asked why Sherlock was in such a good mood, because she had never seen him look that happy. She asked if it was because of John. Sherlock gave no answer.  
But whether it was dissecting an arm or an eye, injecting various poisons and seeing which one would have the quickest affect or rolling his eyes at Jim's ridiculous choice of apron, mocking the entire thing altogether... regardless, Sherlock was starting to realize how dangerously close the two were becoming, and he didn't know how to handle it. 

Truthfully, he didn't know what they were. Were they friends? Acquaintances? 

When Jim had first shown up, Sherlock thought they would do nothing but taunt each other with words, an endless game of teases and dangerous flirtations, conversations that would ignite the others' soul. But this... This was beyond all of that now. They had started to rely on one another. 

Sherlock would expect Jim to show up at approximately 7am sharp every morning and would pout when he didn't hear the familiar and comfortable sounds of Jim's footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock would always have tea ready. Whenever Jim brought up a new topic of discussion, Sherlock would immediately forget what he was thinking about and channel his energy to that. Whenever Sherlock would change the direction of his body, Jim would follow suit, energetically following him into the kitchen and back into the living room. If Sherlock didn't know any better, it was as if they were attached at the hip, inseparable, in a way not even he and John were. 

John liked his personal space. John liked reading the paper, or typing on his blog, or eating food and would most times act as if Sherlock wasn't even there. Jim's eyes would follow Sherlock's every move or when they were listening to music, Jim's eyes would close, a dreamy, satisfied expression on his face. Normally if someone was being overtly clingy, Sherlock would've found it annoying, but instead, he was... flattered. 

The greatest mind he had ever known, apart from himself of course, wanted to spend time with him. Jim didn't mind Sherlock's idiosyncrasies. If anything, Jim shared them. Jim had his own quirks that Sherlock would occasionally notice and when he did, it brought him immeasurable joy. The way Jim's eyes would light up at the end of an experiment, or the way Jim's fingers would sway to the music they were listening to... and sometimes, although it was a rarity, Sherlock could enjoy the low, quiet vibrations of Jim's laughter and the way it made goosebumps appear on his own skin. No one had ever had that affect on him.

Sherlock never dared once to question what this was. James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes didn't work well with labels. He didn't dare try to categorize what their relationship was. They just... were. It was as simple as that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small chapter, I know, I'm so sorry... I was on vacation and now I'm back to work so time is limited. But don't worry, folks! I know exactly where this fic is headed and it's all in my head, I just have to write it down. Thanks for reading!


	4. Round Four

John held his breath as he walked out of the familiar tube station and he wasn't sure why. There was no reason to. There was no reason to feel anxious. Sure, he hadn't seen Sherlock in months, but he knew his friend would be fine. John was certain that Sherlock had found enough cases, had found enough oddities in the city to keep him preoccupied to not call him or text him. But John couldn't help but feel... hurt. Betrayed. And he hoped beyond hope that Sherlock still needed him.

In truth, John had missed the man. Terribly. Deeply. These few months apart had felt like the better part of himself had been missing. He would catch himself at work staring at the door and praying against all better judgement for Sherlock to come and sweep him away, away from his life of monotony and into the darkness of the city, just like before. He would catch himself, in the rare moments when Mary and his child were asleep, staring out the window and his heart would long for an easier and better time. He loved Mary, God did he love her, yes, despite everything... and the look on his daughter's face every time he would pick her up, with her eyes wide and her mouth open, it completed him...

But he missed Sherlock. And he never realized how much he loved him until now.

He felt awful that he did. But he couldn't help it. The stings of guilt were outweighed by the joy that memories of Sherlock gave him. 

No matter how many times he wished the thought of Sherlock would go away, it never did. On his way home, John would hear Sherlock's voice in the wind, he would see Sherlock's Belstaff in the darkness of the night. The sirens of the police were an old song that John had forgotten the lyrics to. 

He decided he was going to tell Sherlock. Today.

John stared up at the 221B that seemed to sneer at him, laughing at him. "Not today." John replied.

He clenched and unclenched his fists on the way up the stairs. His fingers brushed against the odd wallpaper that he had become so accustomed to. This was his home. Sherlock was his home.

At the sight of the detective, John let out a sigh of relief. He looked the same, exactly as he had a few months ago, although his hair had grown about an inch. Sherlock was sitting in his armchair and had his eyes closed and he was leaning his chin on his outstretched fingers, a pose that John had memorized every detail of. He cleared his throat to get Sherlock's attention.

Something awoke Sherlock from his utmost concentration. It couldn't be Jim, he knew, because Jim had already left for the day for a very important meeting that he promised Sherlock would be a lot of fun in the coming months. His eyes opened and settled on John's figure and his heart froze. "John?"

John gave a small nod of recognition, but locking eyes with Sherlock caused his face to break into a smile. 

"You look like you've just seen a ghost." John teased and he tossed his coat aside, laying it on his armchair and having a seat. He groaned to himself just how at home he felt. It was as if he had never left. 

Sherlock could do nothing but blink, the severity of his actions the past few weeks hitting him like a blow to the head. How... how could he tell John everything about Jim? What on earth could he say?

Sherlock immediately got up to make tea, awkwardly making his way to the kitchen, his heart pounding in his ears. 

He returned with chamomile tea, thinking it best that they both had something to relax them.  
Sherlock had barely sat down when the inevitable words escaped his mouth, "How... is everything... with Mary?" Sherlock closed his eyes and cursed at himself. That was not the way he wanted this conversation to start.

John cringed, Sherlock's awkwardness was slightly off-putting but he was used to it. "Good... um, yeah, good."

"How's your daughter?" 

"Shirley is... fine. She's growing up a bit too fast already." The look on John's face suggested that he loved that girl with all of the love that was in him and it made Sherlock's stomach lurch.

Silence. 

John didn't know what he was expecting. Sherlock was never any good at small talk. John sighed defeatedly. It was time.

John cleared his throat and crossed his fingers together, scooting up in his chair so he was even closer to Sherlock than he already was. 

"Sherlock... I... I have to tell you something."

Sherlock took a breath in and tried to expel his guilt with a breathy, "So do I." He replied a bit too quickly.

John furrowed his brow in confusion. "Alright, well... why don't you go first?" 

This was it. Sherlock knew there was no other way around it. He knew what he had to do. 

"John... it's time I told you what really happened on the rooftop of St. Bart's." 

John felt as if his whole life had suddenly stopped in its tracks. He felt as if he wasn't really there, like he was on the outside looking in, like he was watching some terrible movie on the tele at four in the morning because Sherlock was playing his violin and had woken him up. 

"Why?..." John felt his hands shaking, "Why now? I don't see how this has to do with anything..."

Sherlock gave a small, sad smile. "It has to do with everything."

John didn't like the look in Sherlock's eyes but with a nod, he motioned Sherlock to continue. 

"Everything you know about the case is true. Moriarty did want to ruin my reputation. We met up on the rooftop to discuss the end of our problem; how I would use the binary code that he created to destroy Richard Brook. Except I... I knew it wasn't real."

John could do nothing but blink. "You knew the binary code wasn't real?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes."

"I don't understand. Then why did you need to speak with Moriarty?"

Sherlock's face seemed to move, slightly, into an expression that John had never seen before. It was between regret and bliss and however difficult it was to read Sherlock before, nothing could prepare John for how much of a blank slate he was now.

"The whole thing was... a game. It was just a game, John." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper now. 

"I don't... understand what you mean." 

"When I arrived at the rooftop, it was an experience like one I could have never anticipated. Moriar- Jim was so... so desolate, so lonely. Even as his plan to rid me of this earth began to unravel, so did Jim's actual feelings on the subject. He didn't really want to kill me, John. He was just playing a game. Deep down, I knew he wanted me to figure out a way to survive the fall." Sherlock took a long, calming sip of his tea to steady his nerves.

"There was a moment... a moment when I was on the ledge and I asked him for a moment of privacy. It hit me then... something that he had said, clued me into the fact that all of this, this entire case, the entirety of Richard Brook, was all a game. He said that he wasn't going to call the snipers off. There, in that one phrase, Jim had slipped up. Once I let him know that I knew he could call the entire thing off, Jim's mood... changed. Considerably. He wasn't angry anymore. We began to..." Sherlock stopped for a moment, truly putting himself back into the mindset of that fateful day, "We began to talk about how alike we were. I began to tell him that I was prepared to do anything, prepared to burn, prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. He accused me of being on the side of the angels and I told him that I wasn't one of them. All of this was code, of course. It meant that I was prepared to complete this case, to fall from the roof and fake my death because... this game, was a masterpiece. It was brilliant. It was Jim's Magnum Opus... how could I not finish it? We were both bored... bored of how stagnant our lives had become, and in that moment, we both agreed to finish it. I agreed that I would jump off of the roof and fake my death and he agreed to fake his death as well and that we would disappear for a while. We shook hands. We sealed the deal."

Silence. A war was happening inside of John's head and it sucked the air right out of his lungs. No... this couldn't mean what he thought it meant. It took him a moment to regain his breath. 

"You mean you... you faked your death and put me and your friends through hell... just because you were bored and you wanted to finish Moriarty's game?" 

"Yes."

"You... faked your death, and he faked his death, so you both could finish the game?" John repeated, unable to process what he was actually saying. 

Sherlock nodded, a laugh escaping his lips, his eyes alight with excitement. "Yes, John. His plan was brilliant. I had never experienced anything like it." 

John shook his head, licked his lips nervously and mimicked Sherlock's laugh and he only noticed that he was clenching his fists when a pain shot through him. 

"Why... why'd you disappear for two years? If you knew it was all a game, why didn't you just come back after a few weeks?" 

"The entire point of our faked suicides was to escape the banality of our lives. I went around the world, trying to dismantle as much of his network as I possibly could. I couldn't... I didn't have the courage to tell you, then, why I had done what I'd done. I'd imagine that you'd hate me. I'd imagine that you wouldn't understand..."

John could feel fury well up within him and he stood and paced the room, not caring how hard his feet pounded the floor. 

"I don't believe this, Sherlock... I just don't..." 

Sherlock grimaced, eyes on John's empty chair. "You might want to sit down again, John."

"Hmm?"

"This next part you won't like very much."

"Right, because I liked this last part so much." After clearing his throat and taking a deep breath, John obeyed and gripped the arms of the chair for his very life. 

"Over the past month... Jim has been visiting me. We've... become... friends." 

"Friends? You've become friends? What must that be like? Hello Sherlock, sorry that I've been tormenting you for the past few years, let's become the best of mates." John rolled his eyes.

"Don't... don't do that, John. You don't understand us. You never have."

"Oh, I understand you two perfectly. No one could possibly compare to the great mind of Jim Moriarty. People's lives don't matter as long as Moriarty is behind it." John was fighting the impulse to stand again. He was fighting the impulse to shout, to cry, to scream, to hit something... He couldn't believe this... the man that he thought he knew was vanishing before his very eyes and he had never felt so helpless. 

"John..." Sherlock mumbled weakly. 

"There's nothing you can say that can justify what you're doing. Save it." John warned, wagging a finger pathetically in Sherlock's direction. 

"Maybe I needed him because... I don't have you." 

Silence. And then-

"This is... unbelievable..." John tried to suppress a laugh, "Now you're blaming this on me." In truth, John's heart was pounding in his ears. In truth, Sherlock had just said the words he had pined to hear since they had first met. Was Sherlock... was Sherlock implying something? Something... wonderful and terrible and everything that John wanted?

John was lost in his thoughts for a moment more before he cleared his throat, trying to swallow down the words that were about to escape him, but to no avail. 

"No." John said simply. 

"I'm... sorry?"

"That's not... true. As much as I wish it was, what you just said, it's not true. Jim isn't a replacement for me. It's more than that. The way you look when you speak about him... there's... there's something in your eyes. You..." John ignored his furious, pounding, aching heart, "The way you feel about him... is something that you'll never feel about me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes on confusion, although he knew exactly what John meant. 

"You love him." 

Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief, in a sort of terror and rage. No... no... no. This... this couldn't be happening. John was wrong. He didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Sherlock... Sherlock was in love? He couldn't be... This defied all logic, all sense. 

"It's true," John nodded, tears lining the edges of his eyes, "You love him. You finally found your perfect match. You said yourself you were bored with how stagnant your life had become, obviously I couldn't keep you entertained... you played and finished his game and ruined your reputation. You disappeared for two years and thought about him when you were destroying his network. You came back, but not for me. You knew he was still out there, somewhere, and you thought if you came back, so would he. And you were right... you were right."

"John... don't be ridiculous..." Sherlock mumbled weakly and he clutched onto his cup of tea with his shaking hands, trying to find solace in the warmth it provided.

"You... need to tell him, Sherlock. I think you'll be a lot happier." John pushed himself off the chair, grabbed his coat and was on his way to leave the flat before Sherlock's uncharacteristically weak voice stopped him. 

"You... John, you said you had something you had to say. What was it?" 

John let himself feel the pain, the thought of Jim Moriarty visiting the flat, his flat, and sitting in the chair that he used to sit in, and watching the brilliant curly-haired madman conduct his experiments and furiously search his e-mail for new cases... It killed John to imagine that he had indeed been replaced, but not just by anyone, the man responsible for so much of his misery, the man who was just as brilliant as his best friend. He couldn't compare. He never could.

John wiped away his tears as inconspicuously as he could and he turned back around and gave Sherlock a sad smile. "It doesn't matter. Not anymore." He took one step forward but then one step back again. 

"I... I won't be coming round anymore, Sherlock. It's clear you don't need me."

And just like that, John shut the door, and his old life, behind him.

As Sherlock heard the diminishing footsteps of his best friend, and the first love of his life, he merely sat there and cried.


End file.
